UNIVERSIT 


THE  FIVE  BOOKS  OF  YOUTH 


'  THE  FIVE 

BOOKS  OF  YOUTH 


BY 

ROBERT   HILLYER 

AUTHOR  OF  "SONNETS  AND  OTHER  LYRICS' 


NEW  YORK 
BRENTANO'S 

PUBLISHERS 


LIBRARY 

UNIVERSITY  OF  CALIFORNIA 
DAVT55 


COPYRIGHT,  I92O,  BY 
BRENTANO' S 


All  rights  reserved 


THE-PLIMPTON-PHESS 

NORWOOD-MASS-U-S-A 


ACKNOWLEDGMENTS 

Acknowledgments  are  due  to  the 
editors  of  The  Nation,  The  New  Republic, 
The  Dial,  The  Sonnet,  The  Lyric,  Art  and 
Life,  and  Contemporary  Verse,  for  per 
mission  to  reprint  poems  originally  pub 
lished  by  them. 


CONTENTS 
BOOK  I 

A  MISCELLANY 

PAGE 

I  La  Mare  des  Fees .  n 

II    Prothalamion 13 

III  Montmartre 15 

IV  A  Letter 17 

V   Esther  Dancing 19 

VI   Hunters      20 

VII  A  Wreck 22 

VIII   Grave  Stones  in  a  Front  Yard 23 

IX  Vigil 24 

X  When  the  Door  was  Open 25 

XI   The  Maker  Rests 28 

XII   The  Pilgrimage     ...,., 30 

XIII  Epilogue 37 

XIV  Thermopylae 39 

BOOK  II 

DAYS  AND  SEASONS 

I   Winds  blowing  over  the  white-capped  bay  43 

II   Like  children  on  a  sunny  shore      ....  45 

III  Against  my  wall  the  summer  weaves    .    .  46 


PAGE 

IV  Into  the  trembling  air 47 

V   In  gardens  when  the  sun  is  set 48 

VI   Now  the  white  dove  has  found  her  mate  49 

VII   When  voices  sink  in  twilight  silences    .    .  50 

VIII   When  noon  is  blazing  on  the  town    ...  51 

IX  The  trees  have  never  seemed  so  green      .  53 

X  The  green  canal  is  mottled  with  falling 

leaves 54 

XI   They  who  have  gone  down  the  hill  are  far 

away 55 

XII   Where  two  roads  meet  amid  the  wood     .  56 

XIII  The  boy  is  late  tonight  binding  his  sheaves  57 

XIV  O  lovely  shepherd  Corydon,  how  far    .    .  59 
XV  O  little  shepherd  boy,  what  sobs  are  those  60 

XVI   The   dull-eyed   girl    in    bronze   implores 

Apollo 61 

XVII   The  winter  night  is  hard  as  glass  .  ';    .    .  63 

XVIII   Chords,  tremendous  chords 64 

XIX   I  have  known  the  lure  of  cities      ....  65 

XX  We  wove  a  fillet  for  thy  head 66 

BOOK  III 
EROS 

I  Now  the  sick  earth  revives,  and  in  the  sun  69 

II   The  heavy  bee  burdened  the  golden  clover  72 

III   Of  days  and  nights  under  the  living  vine  74 
IV  You  seek  to  hurt  me,  foolish  child,  and 

why? 76 

V   By  these  shall  you  remember    .,„-£,  77 


PAGE 

VI   Two  black  deer  uprise 78 

VII  When  in  the  ultimate  embrace 79 

VIII   Tonight  it  seems  to  be  the  same  ....  80 

IX   If  you  should  come  tonight 81 

X  You  are  very  far  tonight 82 

XI  O  lonely  star  moving  in  still  abodes    .    .  83 

XII  A  chalice  singing  deep  with  wine  ....  84 

BOOK  IV 
THE  GARDEN  OF  EPICURUS 

I   As  dreamers  through  their  dreams  surmise  87 

II   The  thinkers  light  their  lamps  in  rows   .    .  89 

III    I  pass  my  days  in  ghostly  presences   .    .  90 

IV   Each  mote  that  staggers  down  the  sun   .  91 

V   He  is  a  priest 92 

VI   Through    hissing    snow,    through    rain, 

through  many  hundred  Mays    ....  94 

VII   Gods  dine  on  prayer  and  sacred  song  .    .  95 

VIII  A  smile  will  turn  away  green  eyes    ...  96 
IX  Two  Kings  there  were,  one  Good,  one 

Bad 97 

X   I  see  that  Hermes  unawares 98 

XI  Semiramis,  the  whore  of  Babylon   ...       99 

XII  Bring  hemlock,  black  as  Cretan  cheese    .  100 

XIII  Walking  through  the  town  last  night   .    .  101 
XIV  The  change  of  many  tides  has  swung  the 

flow 102 

XV   Piero  di  Cosimo 103 

XVI    I  would  know  what  cannot  be  known  .    .  104 

XVII   The  yellow  bird  is  singing  by  the  pond    .  105 

m 


BOOK  V 
SONNETS 

PAGE 

I   Love  dwelled  with  me  with  music  on  her 

lips .    .  109 

II    Invoking  not  the  worship  of  the  crowd  no 

III  And  yet  think  not  that  I  desire  to  seal   .  in 

IV  With  the  young  god  who  out  of  death 

creates 112 

V  O  it  was  gay!  the  wilderness  was  floral    .  113 

VI   The  snow  is  thawing  on  the  hanging  eaves  114 

VII    So  ends  the  day  with  beauty  in  the  west  115 

VIII   Across  the  evening  calm  I  faintly  hear   .  116 

IX   Calmer  than  mirrored  waters  after  rain  117 

X   I  stood  like  some  worn  image  carved  of 

stone Y'; :   .  ..    ..  118 

XI   Through  the  deep  night  the  leaves  speak, 

tree  to  tree 119 

XII    I  walked   the  hollow  pavements  of  the 

town  .    . "'.' ".  *-.i.  V'  .; '.''.'  *."  .*.''/r'"%  '.-  .  120 
XIII    In  tireless  march  I  move  from  sphere  to 

sphere 121 

XIV  A  while  you  shared  my  path  and  solitude  122 

XV  There  is  a  void  that  reason  can  not  face  123 

XVI   The  mirrors  of  all  ages  are  the  eyes      .    .  1 24 

XVII   We  sat  in  silence  till  the  twilight  fell    .    .  125 

XVIII    He  clung  to  me,  his  young  face  dark  with 

woe 126 


BOOK  I 
A  MISCELLANY 


I 

LA  MARE  DES  FfiES 

X  HE  leaves  rain  down  upon  the  forest  pond, 
An  elfin  tarn  green-shadowed  in  the  fern; 
Nine  yews  ensomber  the  wet  bank,  beyond 
The  autumn  branches  of  the  beeches  burn 
With  yellow  flame  and  red  amid  the  green, 
And  patches  of  the  darkening  sky  between. 

This  is  an  ancient  country;    in  this  wood 
The  Druids  raised  their  sacrificial  stones; 
Here  the  vast  timeless  silences  still  brood 
Though  the  cold  wind's  October  monotones 
Fan  the  enchanted  senses  with  the  dread 
Of  holiness  long-past  and  beauty  dead. 

How  far  beyond  this  glade  the  day-world  turns 
Upon  its  pivot  of  reward  and  chance; 
Farther  than  the  first  star  that  palely  burns 
Over  the  forest's  meditative  trance. 
First  star  of  evening,  last  star  of  day, 
The  one  grows  clear,  the  other  dies  away. 


Will  they  come  back  who  once  beneath  these  trees 
Invoked  their  long-forgotten  gods  with  tears, 
Who  heard  the  sob  of  the  same  twilight  breeze 
Blow  down  the  vistas  of  remembered  years, 
Beside  the  tarn's  black  waters  where  they  stood 
Close  to  their  god,  far  from  the  multitude? 

I  watch,  but  they  are  long  ago  departed, 
Far  as  the  world  of  day,  or  as  the  star; 
The  forest  loved  her  priests,  and  tranquil-hearted 
They  stole  away  in  dim  procession,  far 
Down  the  unechoing  aisles,  beyond  recalling; 
The  moss  grows    on  the  stones,  the  leaves  are 
falling. 

In  vain  I  listen  for  their  hissing  speech, 
And  seek  white  holy  hands  upon  the  air, 
They  told  their  worship  to  the  yew  and  beech, 
And  left  them  with  the  secret,  trembling  there, 
Nor  shall  they  come  at  midnight  nor  at  dawn; 
The  gods  are  dead;    the  votaries  are  gone. 

A  form  floats  toward  me  down  the  corridor 
Of  mighty  trees,  half-visioned  through  the  haze, 
And  stands  beside  me  on  that  empty  shore; 
So  rest  we  there,  and  wonderingly  gaze. 
By  the  dead  water,  under  the  deep  boughs, 
My  Love  and  I  renew  our  ancient  vows. 
Moret-sur-Loingt  1918 


II 

PROTHALAMION 


T, 


HE  faded  turquoise  of  the  sky 
Darkens  into  ocean  green 
Flecked  palely  where  the  stars  will  rise. 
A  single  bough  between 

The  spacious  colour  and  your  half-closed  eyes 
Hangs  out  its  hazy  traceries. 
Still,  like  a  drowsy  god  you  lie, 
My  fair  unbidden  guest, 

Your  white  hands  crossed  beneath  your  head, 
Your  lips  curved  strangely  mute  with  peace, 
Your  hair  moved  lightly  by  the  breeze. 
A  glow  is  shed 

Warm  on  your  face  from  the  last  rays  that  push 
From  the  dying  sun  into  the  green  vault  of  the 

west. 

This  is  your  bridal  night;    the  golden  bush 
Is  heavy  with  the  fruits  that  you  will  taste, 
Full  ripened  in  desire. 
You  who  have  hoarded  youth,  this  is  your  hour 

of  waste, 

Your  hour  of  squandering  and  drunkenness, 
Of  wine-dashed  lips  and  generous  caress, 
Of  brows  thorn-crowned  and  bodies  crucified,  — 
O  bid  me  to  the  feast. 


Tomorrow  when  the  hills  are  washed  with  fire, 
Your  door  ajar  against  the  flashing  East,  — 
O  fling  it  wide. 

Paris, 


Ill 

MONTMARTRE 


A 


ROCKY  hill  above  the  town, 
Grey  as  the  soul  of  silence, 
Except  where  two  white  strutting  domes 
Stand  aloof  and  frown 
On  the  huddled  homes 
Of  world-wept  love  and  pain,  — 
They  do  not  heed  that  tall  disdain, 
But  sleep,  grey,  under  the  stars  and  the  rain. 

A  woman,  young,  but  old  in  love, 
Carried  her  child  across  the  square; 
Her  face  was  a  dim  drifting  flame 
To  which  her  pyre  of  hair 
Was  a  column  of  golden  smoke. 

Her  eyes  half  told  the  secrets  of 

Gay  sins  that  no  regret  defiled; 

There  her  heart  broke 

In  the  little  question  between  her  eyes. 

Hearing  the  trees  in  the  square  she  smiled, 

And  sang  to  the  child. 

So  passed  by  in  the  narrow  street 

That  climbs  the  steep  rock  over  the  town, 

Love  and  the  west  wind  in  the  stars; 

The  wind  and  the  sound  of  those  lagging  feet 


Died  like  forgotten  tears. 

I  waited  till  the  stars  went  down, 

And  I  wrote  these  lines  on  a  cloud  to  greet 

The  dawn  on  the  crystal  stairs. 

Par  is,  /p/p 


DEAR 


IV 
A  LETTER 

boy,  what  can  this  stranger  mean  to 
you, 

Blown  to  your  country  by  unbridled  chance? 
That  he  should  drink  the  morn's  first  cup  of  dew 
Fresh  from  the  spring,  and  quicken  that  grave 

glance 
Wherein  as  rising  tides  on  hazy  shores 

Rise  the  new  flames  and  colours  of  romance? 

Ah,  wise  and  young,   the  world  shall  use  your 

youth 

And  fling  you  shorn  of  beauty  to  despair, 
The  sum  of  all  that  fascinating  truth 

That  you  have  gleaned,  hands  tangled  in  brown 

hair, 

Eyes  straining  into  contemplative  fires,  — 
This  truth  shall  not  seem  truth  when  trees  are 
bare. 

The  hunger  of  the  soul,  the  watcher  left 
To  brood  the  nearness  of  his  own  decay, 

Dully  remarking  the  slow  shameless  theft 
Of  the  old  holiness  from  day  to  day, 

How  youth   grows    tarnished,   wisdom    changes 

false,  — 
Till  one  bends  near  to  steal  your  life  away. 


Yet  who  am  I  to  turn  aside  the  hand 
Outstretched  so  friendly  and  so  humbly  proud, 

Heaped  up  with  beauty  from  the  sunrise  land 
Of  hearts  adventurous  and  heads  unbowed? 
Only,  look  not  at  me  with  changing  eyes 
When  we  must  separate  amid  the  crowd. 

Tours,  1918 


ESTHER  DANCING 

not  nor  stir.     Here  music  is  alive, 
Woven  from  those  swift  fingers,  strong  and  light, 
Marching  across  those  singing  hands,  or  shed 
Slowly,  like  echoes  down  the  muffled  night, 
Or  beautifully  translated,  note  by  note, 
Some  fainter  voice,  rhapsodic  and  remote, 
Or  shaken  out  in  melodies  that  dive 
Clear  into  fathoms  of  profounder  things, 
Then  suddenly  again  on  rising  wings, 
Burst  into  sun  and  hover  overhead. 

Incarnate  music  flashing  into  form 

Fled  from  the  vineyards  of  melodious  Greece, 

Feet  that  have  flown  before  the  gathering  storm 

Or  glanced  in  gardens  of  the  Golden  Fleece, 

Face  atune  to  all  the  songs  that  mass 

Their  gusts  of  passion  on  the  sunlit  grass, 

Image  of  lyric  hope  and  veiled  despair, 

Like  them,  thou  shalt  unutterably  pass 

Into  the  silence  and  the  shadowed  air. 

Pomfret,  1919 


VI 
HUNTERS 


A 


VASE  red-wrought  in  Athens  long  ago.  .  .  . 
The  hunter  and  his  gay  companion  ride 
Through  the  young  fields  of  life;    on  every  side 
Frail  and  fantastic  the  tall  lilies  grow. 
Her  head  thrown  back,  her  eyes  afraid  and  wide, 
Flies  like  a  phantom  the  grey  spectral  doe, 
Her  light  feet  scarcely  bend  the  grass  below, 
Gloriously  flying  into  eventide. 

Ahead  there  lies  the  shadow,  then  the  dark, 

And  safety  in  the  thick  forestial  night, 

But  nearer  still  she  hears  the  bloodhounds  bark, 

And  horses  panting  in  impetuous  flight, 

And  hunters  without  pity  for  the  slain, 

Halloing  shrilly  over  the  windy  plain. 

Sombre  become  the  skies,  the  winds  of  fall 
Sing  dangerously  through  the  hissing  grass; 
Sunlight  and  clouds  in  slow  procession  pass 
Over  the  tress,  then  comes  an  interval 
Of  utter  calm,  the  air  is  a  morass 
Of  humid  breathlessness.     A  dreadful  call 
Rings  suddenly  from  the  onrushing  squall, 
And  the  storm  closes  in  a  whirling  mass. 

C20] 


And  still  the  doe  eludes  the  raging  hounds, 
And  still  the  youths   press  onward  toward  the 

woods, 

Though  the  world  shudders  with  diluvian  sounds 
And  the  rain  streams  in  undulating  floods. 
Sharp  lightning  splits  the  sky;   the  doe  is  gone. 
O  follow!    follow!    if  it  be  till  dawn. 

The  hunted  flees,  the  boyish  hunters  follow 

Into  the  forest's  dripping  everglades, 

The    wind    goes    wailing    through    the    swaying 

shades, 

And  violent  rain  gushes  in  every  hollow. 
The  doe  runs  free,  triumphantly  evades 
Those  straining  eyes;    the  ghastly  shadows  swal 
low 

Her  flying  form;    the  frightened  horses  wallow 
Deep  in  the  mire.     Then  the  last  daylight  fades. 

O  Youths,  turn  back!   the  year  is  getting  late, 
And  autumn  has  no  pity  for  the  slain. 
Twining  like  serpents,  the  lean  arms  of  fate 
Grope  toward  you  through  the  blackness  and  the 

rain, 

Then  Death,  and  the  obliterating  snow.  .  .  . 
A  vase,  red-wrought  in  Athens  long  ago. 


VII 
A  WRECK 

i^URVIVOR  of  an  unknown  past, 
On  this  wild  shore  cast 
By  the  sad  desolate  tides; 
In  a  warm  harbour  long  ago 
They  waited  you,  and  waited  long, 
And  guessed  and  feared  at  last, 
But  could  not  know. 

Now  in   a  language  strange  the  waves   make 

song, 

And  the  flood  surges  round  your  broken  sides, 
And  the  ebb  leaves  you  to  the  burning  sun. 

But  when  the  voyage  of  my  life  is  done, 
And  my  soul  puts  forth  no  more, 
Then  may  I  sleep 

Beneath  the  fathoms  of  the  tideless  deep, 
And   not   be  cast   deserted  on  some   dark   alien 
shore. 

Cape  Cod,  1916 


VIII 
GRAVE  STONES  IN  A  FRONT  YARD 

JL/EST  the  swift  world  forget  their  names  and 

pass 

Unthinking,  they  have  set  this  cold  dead  slate 
Above  their  slumbers  in  the  living  grass 
To  warn  all  comers  of  impending  fate; 

Where  friends  made  merry  once  at  their  behest, 
Where  young  feet  strolled  about  the  shady  lawn, 
They  welcome  none  but  one  unfailing  guest, 
And  all  the  revellers  but  Death  are  gone. 

Edgartown,  ipi6 


IX 
VIGIL 

HIS  is  the  hour  when  all  substantial  foes 
Are  exorcised  and  taunt  the  soul  no  more; 
Now  thinner  grows  the  veil  between  the  shore 
Of  vaster  worlds  and  our  calm  garden  close. 
Through  the  small  exit  of  the  open  door 
We  pass,  and  seem  to  feel  the  eyes  of  those 
We  knew  upon  us;    almost  we  suppose 
The  advent  of  the  face  we  tremble  for. 

O  that  through  this  profound  serenity 

Might  sound  the  answer  to  the  heart's  deep  cry; 

If  all  those  gracious  presences  might  see 

That,  though  we  hurt  them  once,  they  shall  not 

die 

Until  we  also  wither,  we  who  keep 
Vigil  on  these  sweet  meadows  where  they  sleep. 

Pomfret, 


WHEN  THE  DOOR  WAS  OPEN 


)NELY  as  music  from  afar, 
Hung  the  new  moon  and  one  white  star, 
Above  the  poplars  black  and  tall 
That  sentineled  the  garden  wall; 
Four  black  poplars  beyond  the  wall, 
Two  on  each  side  of  the  garden  gate, 
In  silhouette  against  the  wide 
Pale  sky  of  the  late  eventide. 
Close  was  the  garden  and  serene. 
The  leaning  reeds  in  quiet  state 
About  the  pool,  merged  in  the  green 
Of  misty  leaves  and  hanging  vines. 
The  fireflies  spun  their  silver  lines 
Across  the  deeper  atmosphere, 
And  through  the  silence  came  the  clear 
Persistent  tuning  of  the  frogs 
From  dank  recesses  of  the  bogs. 

Beyond  the  garden  I  could  see 

The  glimmer  of  uncertain  meadows, 

Framed  by  the  open  doorway,  wreathing 

Sarabands  of  ghostly  shadows, 

Slowly  turning,  slowly  breathing, 

Largely  and  unhastily,  — 

But  the  garden  held  its  breath. 

[25] 


Peace  as  profound  as  death,  if  death 

Be  visited  by  stealthy  dreams; 

A  vagrant  note  from  soundless  themes 

That  ring  the  comet-paths  of  space, 

Seemed  vibrant  in  the  windless  air 

That  trembled  with  its  presence  there. 

Out  beyond  the  nameless  place 

Where  neither  fields  nor  clouds  exist, 

Grey  from  the  background  of  the  mist, 

I  saw  three  vague  forms  drawing  near. 

My  sense  recoiled  acute  with  fear; 

I  could  not  stir.     As  from  a  cage 

I  watched  that  spectral  dim  cortege 

Moving  inexorable  and  slow 

Against  the  ashen  afterglow. 

Now  caught  the  moon  their  robes  in  white, 

Now  strode  they  sable  through  the  night, 

Across  the  grass  they  came  and  grew 

Whiter,  statelier,  as  they  drew 

Beneath  the  shadow  of  the  wall; 

Then  one  by  one  the  three  stepped  through 

The  garden  door,  and  stood  a  while 

Beside  the  pool,  their  image  spread 

Sombre,  and  menacing,  and  tall. 

Sombre  as  Priam's  dreadful  daughter, 

Menacing  as  a  murderer's  smile, 

Tall  as  the  fingers  of  the  dead, 

Stood  they  beside  the  quiet  water. 


The  moon  went  out  in  a  golden  blur, 
And  the  small  stars  followed  after  her, 
But  when  the  fireflies  cleft  the  air 
I  saw  those  three  forms  standing  there, 
Until  the  night  cooled,  and  the  trees 
Shook  in  the  strong  hands  of  the  breeze, 
And  then  I  heard  their  footsteps  press 
The  muffled  grass  beyond  the  door, 
And  so  went  forth  for  ever  more, 
My  three  Fates  to  the  wilderness. 

Pomfrety  /p/p 


XI 

THE  MAKER  RESTS 

1  HAVE  worked  too  long  and  my  hands  are  tired, 
Said  the  maker; 

From  the  earliest  dawn  unto  deepest  nightfall 
Have  I  laboured. 

From  the  earliest  dawn  before  any  spirit 
Stirred  from  sleeping, 

When  no  single  note  from  the  frozen  forest 
Wakened  music, 

Unto  nightfall  and  the  new  moon  rising 
When  the  silence 

From  the  valleys  rose  in  a  faint  blue  spiral, 
Have  I  laboured. 

I  created  dawn  and  the  new  moon  rising 
Out  of  silence; 

I  have  worked  too  long  and  my  hands  are  tired, 
Said  the  maker. 

I  shall  fold  my  hands;  I  shall  rest  till  sunrise, 
Said  the  maker; 

In  the  shade  of  hills  and  the  calm  of  starlight 
Shall  I  slumber. 


0  my  night  is  sweet  with  a  distant  music! 

1  shall  hear 

The  responding  waves  and  the  wind's  slight  mur 
mur 
While  I  slumber. 

0  my  night  is  fair  with  amazing  colour! 

1  shall  dream 

Of  the  blue-white  stars  and  the  glimmering  forest 
While  I  slumber. 

0  my  night  is  rich  with  unfolding  flowers! 

1  shall  breathe 

All  the  scattered  smells  of  the  field  and  garden 
While  I  slumber  .  .  . 

I  will  rise,  O  Night,  I  will  make  new  beauty, 
Said  the  maker, 

I  will  make  more  songs,  more  stars,  more  flowers, 
Said  the  Lord. 
Cambridge,  1920 


1:29:1 


XII 
THE  PILGRIMAGE 


B, 


BESIDE  a  deep  and  mossy  well 
In  the  dark  starless  night  I  lay; 
And  dropping  water  like  a  bell, 
Like  a  bell  ringing  far  away, 
Struck  liquid  notes  in  monotone,  — 
An  echo  of  a  distant  bell 
Tolling  the  knell  of  yesterday. 
Deep  down  beneath  the  mossy  ground 
The  liquid  notes  in  monotone 
Kept  dropping,  dropping  endlessly, 
And  as  I  listened,  over  me 
Crept  like  a  mist  a  filmy  spell; 
My  spirit's  waving  wings  were  bound, 
And  dreams  came  that  were  not  my  own. 
Half-sleeping,  half-awake,  I  heard 
The  drowsy  chirp  of  a  forest  bird, 
And  the  wind  came  up  and  the  grasses  stirred 
And  the  curtaining  woods  that  cluster  round 
That  resonantly-echoing  well 
Shook  all  their  leaves  with  silver  sound 
Like  voices  murmuring  in  a  shell. 
Was  it  the  past  ,that  lived  again 
In  that  nocturnal  murmuring, 
Waking  a  hidden  voice  to  sing 
Deep  in  my  heart  of  other  times 

C30] 


Whose  memory  long  entombed  had  lain 
Covered  with  all  the  dust  of  the  years?  .  .  . 
Falling  in  splashing  tears 
The  wet  notes  drop  in  liquid  chimes, 
And  the  white  fingers  of  the  breeze 
Gather  a  song  from  the  melodious  trees.  .  . 

There  is  a  hand  whiter  than  pearl 
That  plucks  a  lute's  monotonous  strings; 

0  starlight  phantom  of  a  girl 
What  lyric  soul  around  thee  sings, 
And  what  divine  companionship 

Taught  that  entwining  music  to  thy  fingers, 
And  that  unearthly  music  to  thy  lips? 
She  pauses,  and  the  echo  lingers 
Hovering  like  wings  upon  the  air. 

1  see  more  clearly  now,  her  hair 
Ripples  like  a  black  water-fall 
About  the  pallor  of  her  face. 
She  sits  beside  a  mossy  well 
Amid  some  dim  marmoreal  place, 
Some  fragrant  Moorish  hall 

Set  all  about  with  arabesques  of  stone 
And  intricate  mosaics  of  gem  and  shell. 
She  sings  again,  she  plays  a  monotone, 
Perpetual  rhythm  like  a  far-off  bell, 
And  someone  dances,  in  a  dancing  river 
The  white  ecstatic  limbs  flutter  and  quiver 
Against  the  shadow.     In  the  odorous  flowers 


That  grow  about  the  well,  still  forms  are  lying, 

A  group  of  statues,  an  eternal  throng, 

Watching  the  dance  and  listening  to  the  song; 

So  shall  they  lie,  innumerable  hours, 

Silent  and  motionless  for  ever. 

The  wind  comes  up,  the  flowers  shiver, 

The  dancer  vanishes,  the  songs  are  dying; 

Night  sickens  into  day. 

The  wind  comes  up  and  blows  the  dust  away.  .  .  . 

Between  two  clouds  a  sullen  flame 
Expands,  and  lo,  the  crescent  moon 
Rides  like  a  warrior  through  the  sky. 
Thus  long  ago  the  warning  came 
When  midnight  towns  lay  all  in  swoon, 
That  the  great  gods  were  coming  nigh 
To  crush  the  rebellious  earth. 
Now  beneath  the  crescent  moon 
No  spirits  stir,  no  wind  makes  mirth, 
Only  a  rhythmic  monotone 
Of  waters  dropping  in  a  well.  .  .  * 

But  who  is  this  so  broken  with  distress 
That  steals  like  mist  into  my  loneliness? 
Why  art  thou  weeping  there,  disconsolate  child? 
Thy  tears  fall  like  the  waters  of  a  well, 
And  drip  in  silver  notes  upon  the  sands. 
What  is  thy  sorrow?    Ah,  what  man  can  tell 
The  shapeless  fancies  that  unwelcome  dwell 


Within  thy  brain,  the  spectres,  dark  and  wild 

That  haunt  the  spirit  of  a  child? 

Mayhap  thou  weepest  for  the  embattled  lands, 

The  bloody  ruin  of  decaying  realms 

That  a  war  overwhelms 

And  buries  deep  in  the  dust  of  history? 

He  raises  his  wet  eyes  and  looks  at  me, 

His  boyish  face  full  of  a  yearning, 

An  ancient  pain, 

As  of  a  ghost  long  dead  who  yearns  to  live  again, 

And  answers,  "In  myself,  thy  thoughts  returning 

To  other  times  shall  slumber  in  the  past, 

And  be  a  child  again,  and  die  at  last 

In  the  protecting  arms  of  our  great  Mother 

Who  bore  us  both,  O  well-beloved  brother. 

Thou  in  thy  sorry  dreams,  I  in  my  childish  grief, 

Thy  heart  in  tears,  mine  eyes  amazed  with  tears, 

Thy  sorrow  rich  with  the  repining  years, 

My  sorrow  frail  as  childhood,  and  as  brief. " 

Who  art  thou,  haunting  boy,  nocturnal  elf? 

"I  am  the  Dead;  the  Dead  that  was  thyself." 

Then  falls  a  darkness  on  that  starless  shore. 

Afar  I  hear  the  closing  of  a  door.  .  .  . 

I  see  on  a  sharp  hill  above  the  Styx, 
The  bruised  Christ  upon  his  crucifix, 
And  racked  in  anguish  on  his  either  side 
Hang  Buddha  and  Mohammed  crucified. 
Their  heavy  blood  falls  in  a  monotone 


Like  deep  well-water  dropping  on  a  stone. 
None  moves,  none  breaks  the  silence;    on  those 

roods 

Eternal  suffering  triumphant  broods. 
Prometheus  from  his  cliff  of  wild  unrest 
Mocks  them  and  draws  the  vulture  to  his  breast. 
Each  year  upon  a  darker  Calvary 
Are  hung  the  pallid  victims  of  the  tree, 
And  none  will  watch  with  them,  for  none  can  see 
As  I  once  saw,  unending  agony, 
Save  where  Prometheus  from  his  dizzy  place 
Regards  those  sufferers  with  scornful  face, 
And    his    loud    laughter    rings    through    empty 

Space.  .  .  . 

I  can  see  nothing  now,  and  only  hear 

Through  the  thick  atmosphere 

A  deep  perpetual  well,  that  sad  and  slow, 

Intones  the  knell  of  ages  long  ago, 

And  ages  that  no  man  can  tell  or  know, 

Whose  shadows  roll  before  them  on  the  sky, 

Black  with  forebodings  of  futurity. 

Sweet  sounds  through  midnight,  liquid  interlude, 
Voice  of  the  lonely  souls  that  yearn  and  brood, 
Voice  of  the  unseen  Life,  the  unsubdued, 
What  wonder  that  He  draweth  nigh  to  taste 
Of  your  cool  waters.     Hail  thou  nameless  One, 
Fair  stranger  from  a  realm  beyond  the  Sun, 

C34H 


Knowing  that  thou  art  God  I  do  not  fear,  — 
Speak  to  me,  raise  me  from  my  life's  long  dream. 

"The  whole  night  through  thou  liest  here 
Beside  the  well  that  waters  Lethe's  stream, 
And  still   thou   dost   not   drink;    O   Man   make 

haste; 

Ere  long  the  dawn  will  pour  adown  the  waste, 
And  show  thee,  reft  from  the  embrace  of  night, 
The  barren  world,  barren  of  revelry. 
Happy  art  thou,  O  Man,  happily  free, 
Who  wilt  never  see 

A  thousand  ages  shed  their  life  and  light 
As  petals  fall  at  eventide. 
Thou  shalt  not  see  the  radiant  stars  subside 
Into  the  frozen  ocean  of  the  Vast, 
Nor  see  thy  world  absorbed  at  last 
Into  a  nothingness,  an  airless  void, 
Nor  see  the  thoughts  that  Man  has  glorified 
Swept  from  the  world,   and  with  the  world  de 
stroyed. 

This  have  I  seen  a  thousand  times  repeated, 
Unhappy  as  I  am,  unhappy  God! 
As  many  times  as  thou  hast  greeted 
The  rising  sun  against  the  broad 
And  tranquil  clouds,  so  many  times  have  I 
Greeted  the  dawn  of  a  new  Universe, 
And  seen  the  molten  stars  rehearse 
The  lives  and  passions  of  the  stars  gone  by. 
When  worlds  are  growing  old,  and  there  draw  nigh 


The  shadows  that  shall  cover  them  for  ever, 
(Shadows   like  these  which   doom   your  ancient 

sky) 

Then  to  the  well  that  feeds  the  sacred  river 
I  come,  and  as  the  liquid  music  drips 
Far  in  the  ground,  I  plunge  my  lips 
Deep  in  forgetfulness,  and  wash  away 
All  the  stains  of  the  old  griefs  and  joys, 
That  with  His  lips  as  smiling  as  a  boy's, 
God  may  rejoice  in  His  created  day." 

He  stoops  and  drinks;    a  moment  the  cool  bell 
Pauses  its  ringing  in  the  well: 
A  mist  flies  up  against  the  dawn;  the  young  winds 

weep; 

Is  it  too  late?     I  too  would  drink,  drink  deep, 
But  weariness  is  on  me  and  I  sleep. 

Cambridge, 


XIII 
EPILOGUE 


D. 


'AWN  has  come. 
Faint  hazes  quiver  with  the  faltering  light; 
Some  airy  skein  draws  in  the  shadows  from 
The  broken  forest  where  the  war  has  passed, 
The  Forest  Terrible,  the  grey  despair, 
The  forest  broken  in  the  withering  blight 
Of  the  lean  years,  —  the  blight,  the  years,  have 

passed, 

Leaving  a  solitary  watcher  there, 
Silence  at  last. 

She  watches  by  the  dead, 

Her  deep  white  shadow  overspreads  their  faces. 

Here  in  the  outland  places, 

She  watches  by  the  dead. 

How  many  dawns  have  driven  her  afar 

With  the  loosed  thunder  of  tempestuous  wrong! 

Today  she  will  remain. 

Silence  familiar  to  the  morning  star, 
Standing,  her  finger  to  her  lips, 
Hushing  the  battle-cry,  the  victor's  song, 
Standing  inviolate  above  the  slain. 


The  fugitive  sunlight  slips 
Over  the  fragment  of  a  cloud, 
And  the  sky  opens  wide, 
Behold  the  dawn! 

Where  is  the  nightmare  now?   the  angry-browed? 
The  lowering  imminence  —  the  bloody  eyed  ? 
Fled,  as  the  threat  of  midnight,  fled  away, 
Gone,  after  four  dark  timeless  ages,  gone. 
Hail  the  day! 

Silence,  robed  in  the  morning's  golden  fleece, 
Folding  the  world's  torn  wings  to  stillness,  giving 
Peace  to  the  dead,  and  to  the  living, 
Peace. 

Tourst  1918 


1:38] 


XIV 
THERMOPYLAE 


MEN 


lied  to  them  and  so  they  went  to  die. 
Some  fell,  unknowing  that  they  were  deceived, 
And  some  escaped,  and  bitterly  bereaved, 
Beheld  the  truth  they  loved  shrink  to  a  lie. 
And  those  there  were  that  never  had  believed, 
But  from  afar  had  read  the  gathering  sky, 
And  darkly  wrapt  in  that  dread  prophecy, 
Died  trusting  that  their  truth  might  be  retrieved. 

It  matters  not.     For  life  deals  thus  with  Man; 

To  die  alone  deceived  or  with  the  mass, 

Or  disillusioned  to  complete  his  span. 

Thermopylae  or  Golgotha,  all  one, 

The  young  dead  legions  in  the  narrow  pass; 

The  stark  black  cross  against  the  setting  sun. 

Pomfret,  1919 


BOOK  II 

DATS  AND  SEASONS 


I 

VV  INDS   blowing  over  the  white-capped  bay, 
Winds  wet  with  the  eager  breath  of  spray, 
Warm    and    sweet    from    the    oceans    we    have 
dreamed  of; 

From  gardens  of  Cathay. 

The  empty  factory  windows,  row  on  row, 
Warm  sullenly  beneath  the  afterglow, 
Burn  topaz  out  of  dust  and  dim  the  flare 
Of  the  street-lamps  below. 

In  the  smoky  park  the  dingy  plane-trees  stir, 
Green  branches  in  the  twilight  fade  and  blur; 
A  lonely  girl  walks  slowly  through  the  square 
And  the  wind  speaks  to  her. 

Speaks  of  the  sunset  scattered  on  the  sea, 
And  the  spring  blowing  northward  radiantly; 
Flaming  in  lightning  from  cyclonic  dark, 
Dreams  of  delights  to  be. 

Tomorrow  there  will  be  orchards  filled  with  fruit, 
And  song  of  meadow  lark  and  song  of  flute; 
Far  from  the  city  there  are  lover's  fields, 
Lips  eloquent  and  mute. 


Warm  are  the  winds  out  of  the  ebbing  day, 
Blowing  the  ships  and  the  spring  into  the  bay, 
I  smell  the  cherry  blossoms  falling  gaily 
In  gardens  of  Cathay. 

Paris,  igig 


C443 


II 


.L/IKE  children  on  a  sunny  shore 
The  rhododendrons  thrive 

Which  never  any  spring  before 
Have  been  so  much  alive. 

Each  metal  bough  benignly  lit 
With  yellow  candle  flames; 

The  tree  is  holy,  hallow  it 
With  sacramental  names. 

Paris,  1919 


C453 


Ill 

jfYGAINST  my  wall  the  summer  weaves 

Profundities  of  dusky  leaves, 

And  many-petaled  stars  full-blown 

In  constellated  whiteness  sown; 

I  contemplate  with  lazy  eyes 

My  small  estate  in  Paradise, 

And  very  comforting  to  me 

Is  this  familiarity. 

Paris,  IQIQ 


C463 


I 

INTO  the  trembling  air, 
Calm  on  the  sunset  mist, 
Sweetness  of  gardens  where 
The  yellow  slave  boy  kissed 
The  Sultan's  daughter.  .  .  . 

Shadow  of  tumbled  hair 
Shadow  of  hanging  vine 
Fountains  of  gold  that  twine 
In  singing  water. 

A  secret  I  have  heard 

From  the  scarlet  beak  of  the  bird 

That  sings  at  the  close  of  day, 

Fills  me  with  cold  unrest 

Under  the  open  doors  of  the  fiery  west. 

"O  heart  of  clay, 
O  lips  of  dust, 

O  blue-shadowed  wisteria  vine; 
Youth  falls  away 
As  petals  must 

Beneath  the   drooping   leaves   in  the   day's   de 
cline." 


Paris, 


C47H 


IN 


gardens  when  the  sun  is  set, 
The  air  is  heavy  with  the  wet 
Faint  smell  of  leaves,  and  dark  incense 
Of  peach-blossom  and  violet. 

There  is  no  lurking  foe  to  fear, 
Only  the  friendly  ghosts  are  here 
Of  lazy  youth  and  dozing  age, 
Who  sat  and  mellowed  year  by  year, 

Until  they  merged  with  all  the  rest 
Beneath  the  overhanging  west, 
And  took  their  sleep  with  tranquil  hearts 
Safe  in  our  Mother's  mighty  breast. 

If  there  be  any  sound,  'tis  sweet, 
The  hidden  rush  of  eager  feet 
Where  robins  flutter  in  the  dust, 
Or  perch  upon  the  garden-seat, 

And  little  voices  that  are  known 
To  those  who  contemplate  alone 
The  busy  universe  that  moves 
In  gardens  rank  and  overgrown. 

Here  in  the  garden  we  are  one, 
The  golden  dust,  the  setting  sun, 
The  languid  leaves,  the  birds  and  I,  — 
Small  bubbles  on  oblivion. 

Tour s, 


VI 


No. 


)W  the  white  dove  has  found  her  mate, 
And  the  rainbow  breaks  into  stars; 
And  the  cattle  lunge  through  the  mossy  gate 
As  the  old  man  lowers  the  bars. 

Westerly  wind  with  a  rainy  smell, 

Eaves  that  drip  in  the  mud; 
And  the  pain  of  the  tender  miracle 

Stabbing  the  languid  blood. 

Over  the  long,  wet  meadow-land, 

Beyond  the  deep  sunset, 
There  is  a  hand  that  pressed  your  hand, 

And  eyes  that  shall  not  forget. 

Now  the  West  is  the  door  of  wrath, 

Now  'tis  a  burnt-out  coal; 
Petals  fall  on  the  orchard  path; 

Darkness  falls  on  the  soul. 

Washington,  1918 


C493 


VII 


HEN  voices  sink  in  twilight  silences, 
Like  swimmers  in  a  sea  of  quietude, 
And  faint  farewells  re-echo  from  the  hill; 
When  the  last  thrush  his  sleepy  vesper  says, 
And  the  lost  threnody  of  the  whip-poor-will 
Gropes   through   the   gathering   shadows   in   the 
wood; 

Then  in  the  paths  where  dusk  fades  into  grey, 
And  sighing  shapes  stir  that  I  never  see, 
I  follow  still  a  quest  of  old  despair 
To  find  at  last,  —  ah,  but  I  cannot  say, 
Except  that  I  have  known  a  face  somewhere, 
And  loved  in  times  beyond  all  memory. 

O  soulless  face!   white  flash  in  solitude, 
Forgotten  phantom  of  a  moonless  night, 
Shall  I  kiss  thy  sad  mouth  once  again,  or  wait 
Drowned  beneath  fathoms  of  a  tideless  mood 
Until  the  stars  flee  through  the  western  gate 
Driven  in  shivering  fear  before  the  light? 

Cambridge,  1916 


VIII 


w, 


HEN  noon  is  blazing  on  the  town, 
The  fields  are  loud  with  droning  flies, 
The  people  pull  their  curtains  down, 
And  all  the  houses  shut  their  eyes. 

The  palm  leaf  drops  from  your  mother's  hand 
And  she  dozes  there  in  a  darkened  room, 
Outside  there  is  silence  on  the  land, 
And  only  poppies  dare  to  bloom. 

Open  the  door  and  steal  away 
Through  grain  and  briar  shoulder  high, 
There  are  secrets  hid  in  the  heart  of  day, 
In  the  hush  and  slumber  of  July. 

Your  face  will  burn  a  fiery  red, 
Your  feet  will  drag  through  dusty  flame, 
Your  brain  turn  molten  in  your  head, 
And  you  will  wish  you  never  came. 

O  never  mind,  go  on,  go  on,  — 
There  is  a  brook  where  willows  lean; 
To  weave  deep  caverns  from  the  sun, 
And  there  the  grass  grows  cool  and  green. 

And  there  is  one  as  cool  as  grass, 
Lying  beneath  the  willow  tree, 
Counting  the  dragon  flies  that  pass, 
And  talking  to  the  humble  bee. 


She  has  not  stirred  since  morning  came, 
She  does  not  know  how  in  the  town 
The  earth  shakes  dizzily  with  flame, 
And  all  the  curtains  are  drawn  down. 

Sit  down  beside  her;   she  can  tell 

The  strangest  secrets  you  would  hear, 

And  cool  as  water  in  a  well, 

Her  words  flow  down  upon  your  ear.  .  .  . 

She  speaks  no  more,  but  in  your  hair 
Her  fingers  soft  as  lullabies 
Fold  up  your  senses  unaware, 
Into  a  poppy  paradise. 

And  when  you  wake,  the  evening  mist 

Is  rising  up  to  float  the  hill, 

And  you  will  say,  "The  mouth  I  kissed, 

The  voice  I  heard  ...  a  dream  .  .  .  but  still 

"The  grass  is  matted  where  she  lay, 

I  feel  her  fingers  in  my  hair"  .  .  . 

But  your  lamp  is  bright  across  the  way, 

And  your  mother  knjts  in  the  rocking  chair. 

Paris,  /p/p 


IX 


T, 


HE  trees  have  never  seemed  so  green 
Since  I  remember, 

As  in  these  groves  and  gardens  of  September, 
And  yet  already  comes  the  chill 
That  bodes  the  world's  last  garden  ill, 
And  in  the  shadow  I  have  seen 
A  spectre,  —  even  thine, 
O  Vandal,  0  November. 

The  wind  leaps  up  with  sudden  screams 

In  gusts  of  chaff. 

Two  boys  with  blowing  hair  listen  and  laugh. 

We  hear  the  same  wind,  they  and  I, 

Under  the  dark  autumnal  sky; 

It  blows  strange  music  through  their  dreams. 

Keenly  it  blows  through  mine, 

Singing  their  epitaph. 

Tours,  1918 


CS3] 


CHE 


green  canal  is  mottled  with  falling  leaves, 
Yellow  leaves,  fluttering  silently; 
A  whirling  gust  ripples  the  woods,  and  heaves 
The  stricken  branches  with  a  sigh, 
Then  all  is  still  again. 
Unmoving,  the  green  waterway  receives 
Ghosts  of  the  dying  forest  to  its  breast; 
Loneliness  .  .  .  quiet  .  .  .  not  a  wing  has  stirred 
In  the  cold  glades;    no  fish  has  leaped  away 
From  the  heavy  waters;    not  a  drop  of  rain 
Distils  from  the  pervading  mist. 
Sluggishly  out  of  the  west 
A  grey  canal-boat  glides,  half-seen,  unheard; 
The  sweating  horses  on  the  towpath  sway 
Backward  and  forward  in  a  rhythmic  strain; 
It  passes  by,  a  dream  within  a  dream, 
Down  the  dark  corridor  of  leaning  boughs, 
Down  the  long  waterways  of  endless  fall. 
A  shiver  stirs  the  woods;    a  fitful  gleam 
Of  sun  gilds  the  sky's  overhanging  brows; 
Then  shadowy  silence,  and  the  yellow  stream 
Of  dead  leaves  dropping  to  the  green  canal. 

Morft-sur-Loing,  igi8 


CS4] 


XI 


T, 


HEY  who  have  gone  down  the  hill  are  far 

away; 

From  the  still  valleys  I  can  hear  them  call; 
Their  distant  laughter  faintly  floats 
Through  the  unmoving  air  and  back  to  me. 
I  am  alone  with  the  declining  day 
And  the  declining  forest  where  the  notes 
Of  all  the  happy  minstrelsy, 
Birds  and  leaf-music  and  the  rest, 
Sink  separately  in  the  hush  of  fall. 
The  sun  and  clouds  conflicting  in  the  west 
Swirl  into  smoky  light  together  and  fade 
Under  the  unbroken  shadow; 
Under  the  shadowed  peace  that  is  the  night; 
Under  the  night's  great  quietude  of  shade. 
The  sheep  below  me  in  the  meadow 
Seem  drifting  on  the  haze,  serene  and  white, 
Pale  pastured  dreams,  unearthly  herds  that  roam 
Where  the  dead  reign  and  phantoms  make  their 

home. 

They  also  pass,  even  as  the  clear  ring 
Of  the  sad  Angelus  through  the  vales  echoing. 

Montigny,  1918 


XII 


HERE  two  roads  meet  amid  the  wood, 
There  stands  a  white  sepulchral  rood, 
Beneath  whose  shadow,  wayfarers 
Would  pause  to  offer  up  their  prayers. 
There  is  no  house  for  miles  around, 
No  sound  of  beast,  no  human  sound, 
Only  the  trees  like  sombre  dreams 
From  whose  bare  boughs  the  water  drips; 
And  the  pale  memory  of  death. 
The  haze  hangs  heavy  without  breath, 
It  hangs  so  heavy  that  it  seems 
To  hold  a  silent  finger  to  its  lips. 

In  after  years  the  spectral  cross 

Will  be  quite  overgrown  with  moss, 

And  wayfarers  will  go  their  way 

Nor  stop  to  meditate  and  pray. 

The  spring  will  nest  in  all  the  trees 

Unblighted  by  the  memories 

Of  autumn  and  the  god  of  pain. 

The  leaves  will  whisper  in  the  sun, 

Life  will  crown  death  with  snowy  flowers, 

Long  hence  .  .  .  but  now  the  autumn  lowers, 

The  sky  breaks  into  gusts  of  rain, 

Turn  thee  to  sleep,  the  day  is  nearly  done. 

Forest  of  Fontaingbleau,  1918 


XIII 


T, 


HE  boy  is  late  tonight  binding  his  sheaves, 
The  twilight  of  these  autumn  eves 
Falls  early  now  and  chill. 
The  murky  sun  has  set 
An  hour  ago  behind  the  overhanging  hill. 
Great  piles  of  fallen  leaves 
Smoulder  in  every  street 

And  through  the  columned  smoke  a  scarlet  jet 
Of  flame  darts  out  and  disappears. 


The  boy  leans  motionless  upon  his  staff, 

With  all  the  sorrows  of  his  fifteen  years 

Gazing  out  of  his  eyes  into  the  fall, 

A  memory  ineffable  and  sweet 

Half  tinged  with  voiceless  passion,  half 

Plaintive  with  sad  imaginings  that  drift 

Like  echoes  of  far-off  autumnal  bells. 

He  starts  up  with  a  laugh, 

Binds  up  the  last  gaunt  sheaf  and  turns  away; 

Out  of  the  dusk  an  inarticulate  call 

Rings  keen  across  the  solemn  Berkshire  woods, 

And  then  the  answer.     Impotent  farewells 

That  eager  voices  lift 

Into  the  hush  of  the  receding  day; 

Full  soon  the  silence  surges  in  again, 

Peaceful,  inevitable,  deep  as  death. 

£57] 


The  boy  has  lingered  late  in  the  grey  fields, 
Knowing  the  first  strange  happiness  of  pain, 
And  the  low  voices  of  October  moods. 
Now  comes  the  night,  the  meadow  yields 
Unto  the  sky  a  damp  and  pungent  breath; 
The  quiet  air  of  the  New  England  town 
Seems  confident  that  everyone  is  home 
Safe  by  his  fire. 
The  frosty  stars  look  down 
Near,  near  above  the  kind  familiar  trees 
In  whose  dry  branches  roam 
The  gentle  spirits  of  the  darkling  breeze. 
Deep  in  its  caverned  heart  the  forest  sings 
Of  mysteries  unknown  and  vanished  lore; 
Old  wisdom;  dead  desire; 

Dreams  of  the  past,  of  immemorial  springs.  .  .  . 
The  wind  is  rising  cold  from  the  river:    close  the 
door. 

Tours,  1918 


CS8] 


XIV 


o 


LOVELY  shepherd  Corydon,  how  far 
Thou  wanderest  from  thine  Ionian  hills; 
Now  the  first  star 

Rains  pallid  tears  where  the  lost  lands  are, 
And  the  red  sunset  fills 
The  cleft  horizon  with  a  flaming  wine. 

The  grave  significance  of  falling  leaves 

Soon  shall  make  desolate  thy  singing  heart, 

When  the  cold  wind  grieves, 

And  the  cold  dews  rot  the  standing  sheaves,  — 

Return,  O  Thou  that  art 

The  hope  of  spring  in  these  lost  lands  of  mine. 

Chdlons-sur-Marne,  1917 


XV 


o 


LITTLE  shepherd  boy,  what  sobs  are  those 
That  shake  your  slender  shoulders,  what  despair 
Has  run  her  fingers  through  your  rumpled  hair, 
And  laid  you  prone  beneath  a  weight  of  woes  ? 
The  trees  upon  the  hill  will  soon  be  bare, 
A  yellow  blight  is  on  the  garden  close, 
But  you,  you  need  not  mourn  the  vanished  rose, 
For  many  springs  will  find  you  just  as  fair. 

Weep  not  for  summer,  she  is  past  all  weeping, 
Fear  not  the  winter,  she  in  turn  will  pass, 
And  with  the  spring  love  waits  for  you,   per 
chance, 
When,  with  the  morn,  faint  wings  stir  from  their 

sleeping, 

And  the  first  petals  scatter  on  the  grass, 
Under  the  orchards  and  the  vines  of  France. 

Recicourt,  1917 


XVI 


T. 


HE  dull-eyed  girl  in  bronze  implores  Apollo 

To  warm  these  dying  satyrs  and  to  raise 
Their  withered  wreaths  that  rot  in  every  hollow 

Or  smoulder  redly  in  the  pungent  haze. 
The  shining  reapers,  gone  these  many  days, 

Have  left  their  fields  disconsolate  and  sear, 
Like  bony  sand  uncovered  to  the  gaze, 

In  this,  the  ebb-tide  of  the  year. 

My  wisest  comrade  turns  into  a  swallow 
And  flashes  southward  as  the  thickets  blaze 
In  awful  splendour;  I,  who  cannot  follow, 

Confront  the  skies'  unmitigated  greys. 
The  cynic  faun  whom  I  have  known  betrays 

A  dangerous  mood  at  night,  and  seems  austere 
Beneath  the  autumn  noon's  distempered  rays, 

In  this,  the  ebb-tide  of  the  year. 

Ice  quenches  all  reflection  in  the  shallow 

Lagoon  whose  trampled  margin  still  displays 

Upheaval  where  the  centaurs  used  to  wallow; 
And  where  my  favourite  unicorns  would  graze, 

A  few  wild  ducks  scream  lamentable  lays 
Of  shrill  derision  desperate  with  fear, 

Bleak  note  on  note,  phrase  on  discordant  phrase, 

,     In  this,  the  ebb-tide  of  the  year. 


Poor  girl,  how  soon  our  garden  world  decays, 
Our  metals  tarnish,  our  loves  disappear; 

Dull-eyed  we  haunt  these  unfrequented  ways, 
In  this,  the  ebb-tide  of  the  year. 

Cambridge,  1920 


C62U 


XVII 


Ti 


HE  winter  night  is  hard  as  glass; 
The  frozen  stars  hang  stilly  down; 
I  sit  inside  while  people  pass 
From  the  dead-hearted  town. 


The  tavern  hearth  is  deep  and  wide, 
The  flames  caress  my  glowing  skin; 
The  icicles  hang  cold  outside, 
But  I  sit  warm  within. 

The  faces  pass  in  blurring  white 
Outside  the  frosted  window,  lifting 
Eyes  against  my  cheerful  night, 
From  their  night  of  dreadful  drifting. 

Sharp  breaths  blow  fast  in  a  smoky  gale, 
Rags  wander  through  the  dull  lamp  light; 

0  my  veins  run  gold  with  Christmas  ale, 
And  the  tavern  fire  is  bright. 

The  midnight  sky  is  clear  as  glass, 
The  stars  hang  frozen  on  the  town, 

1  watch  the  dying  people  pass, 
And  I  wrap  me  warm  in  my  gown. 

Brussels,  IQIQ 


XVIII 

V>HORDS,  tremendous  chords, 

Over  the  stricken  plain, 
The  night  is  calling  her  ancient  lords 

Back  to  their  own  again. 

Vast,  unhappy  song, 

From  incalculable  space, 
Calling  the  heavy-browed,  the  strong, 

Out  of  their  resting-place. 

Far  from  the  lighted  town, 

Over  the  snow  and  ice, 
Their  dreadful  feet  go  up  and  down 

Seeking  a  sacrifice. 


And  can  you  find  a  way 

Where  They  will  not  come  after? 
The  vast  chords  hesitate  and  sway 

Into  a  sudden  laughter. 


Sheffield,  1917 


I 


XIX 


HAVE  known  the  lure  of  cities  and  the  bright 

gleam  of  golden  things, 
Spires,  towers,  bridges,  rivers,  and  the  crowd  that 

flows  as  a  river, 
Lights  in  the  midnight  streets  under    the    rain, 

and  the  stings 
Of  joys  that  make  the  spirit  reel  and  shiver. 

But  I  see  bleak  moors  and  marshes  and  sparse 

grasses, 

And  frozen  stalks  against  the  snow; 
Dead  forests,  ragged  pines  and  dark  morasses 
Under  the  shadows  of  the  mountains  where  no 

men  go. 
The  crags  untenanted  and  spacious  cry  aloud  as 

clear 
As  the  drear  cry  of  a  lost  eagle  over  uncharted 

lands, 
No  thought  that  man  has  ever  framed  in  words' 

is  spoken  here, 
And  the  language  of  the  wind,  no  man  understands. 

Only  the  sifting  wind  through  the  grasses,  and 

the  hissing  sleet, 
And  the  shadow  of  the  changeless  rocks  over  the 

frozen  wold, 
Only  the  cold, 
And  the  fierce  night  striding  down  with  silent  feet. 

Cbambery,  1918 

H65] 


XX 


WE 


wove  a  fillet  for  thy  head, 

And  from  a  flaming  lyre 
Struck  a  song  that  shall  not  die 
Until  the  echoing  stars  be  dead, 
Until  the  world's  last  word  be  said, 
Until  on  tattered  wings  we  fly 

Upward  and  expire. 

And  calm  with  night  thou  watchest  till 

Long  after  we  are  gone, 
Not  knowing  how  we  worshipped  thee; 
Serene,  unfathomably  still, 
Gazing  to  the  western  hill 
Where  pales  the  moon's  hushed  mystery, 

White  in  the  white  dawn. 

Cambridge, 


C66] 


BOOK  III 
EROS 


OW  the  sick  earth  revives,  and  in  the  sun 
The  wet  soil  gives  a  fragrance  to  the  air; 
The  days  of  many  colours  are  begun, 
And  early  promises  of  meadows  fair 
With  starry  petals,  and  of  trees  now  bare 
Soon  to  be  lyric  with  the  trilling  choir, 
And  lovely  with  new  leaves,  spread  everywhere 
A  subtle  flame  that  sets  the  heart  on  fire 
With  thoughts  of  other  springs  and  dreams  of 

new  desire. 

The  mind  will  never  dwell  within  the  present, 
It  weeps  for  vanished  years  or  hopes  for  new; 
This  morn  of  wakened  warmth,  so  calm,  so 

pleasant, 

So  gaily  gemmed  with  diadems  of  dew, 
When  buds  swell  on  the  bough,  and  robins  woo 
Their  loves  with  notes  bell-like  and  crystal-clear, 
The  spirit  stirs  from  sleep,  yet  wonders,  too, 
Whence  comes  the  hint  of  sorrow  or  of  fear 
Making    it    move   rebellious   within   its    narrow 

sphere. 

[69] 


This  flash  of  sun,  this  flight  of  wings  in  riot, 
This  festival  of  sound,  of  sight,  of  smell, 
Wakes  in  the  spirit  a  profound  disquiet, 
And  greeting  seems  the  foreword  of  farewell. 
Budding  like  all  the  world,  the  soul  would  swell 
Out  of  its  withering  mortality; 
Flower  immortal,  burst  from  its  heavy  shell, 
Fly  far  with  love  beyond  the  world  and  sea, 
Out  of  the  grasp  of  change,  from  time  and  twi 
light  free. 

Could  the  unknowing  gods,  waked  in  compassion, 

Eternalize  the  splendour  of  this  hour, 

And    from    the    world's    frail    garlands    strongly 

fashion 

An  ageless  Paradise,  celestial  bower, 
Where    our    long-sundered    souls    could    rise    in 

power 

To  the  complete  fulfilment  of  their  dream, 
And  never  know  again  that  years  devour 
Petals  and  light,  bird-note  and  woodland  theme, 
And   floods  of  young  desire,   bright   as   a  silver 

stream, 

Should  we  be  happy,  thou  and  I  together, 
Lying  in  love  eternally  in  spring, 
Watching  the  buds  unfold  that  shall  not  wither, 
Hearing  the  birds  calling  and  answering, 

1:703 


When  the  leaves  stir  and  all  the  meadows  ring? 
Smelling  the  rich,  earth  steaming  in  the  sun, 
Feeling  between  caresses  the  light  wing 
Of  the  wind  whose  gracious  flight  is  never  done,  — 
Should  we  be  happy  then?    happy,  elusive  One? 

But  no,  here  in  this  fragile  flesh  abides 
The  secret  of  a  measureless  delight, 
Hidden  in  dying  beauty  there  resides 
Something    undying,    something   that    takes    its 

flight 

When  the  dust  turns  to  dust,  and  day  to  night, 
And  spring  to  fall,  whose  joys  in  love  redeem 
Eternally,  life's  changes  and  death's  blight, 
Even  as  these  pale,  tender  petals  seem 
A  glimpse  of  infinite  beauty,  flashed  in  a  passing 

dream. 

Cambridge,  1916 


C70 


II 

A  HE  heavy  bee  burdened  the  golden  clover 
Droning  away  the  afternoon  of  summer, 
Deep  in  the  rippling  grass  I  called  to  you 
Under  the  sky's  blue  flame. 
Then  when  the  day  was  over, 
When  petals  fell  fresh  with  the  falling  dew, 
Stepped  from  the  dusk  a  radiant  newcomer, 
Fled  by  the  waters  of  the  sleeping  river, 
Swift  to  the  arms  of  your  impatient  lover, 
Gladly  you  came. 

And  the  long  wind  in  the  cedars  will  sing  of  this 
for  ever. 


Thin  rain  of  the  saddest  of  Septembers 
Bent  the  tall  grasses  of  the  sloping  meadows, 
But  spring  was  with  me  in  your  slender  form, 
And  the  frail  joy  of  spring. 
Although  the  chilly  embers 
Of  summer  vanished  into  the  gathering  storm 
And  the  wind  clung  to  the  overhanging  shadows, 
Fair  seemed  the  spirit's  desperate  endeavour, 
(And  even  fair  to  the  spirit  that  remembers) 
Joy  on  the  wing! 

And  the  long  wind  in  the  cedars  will  sing  of  this 
for  ever. 


Years,  and  in  slow  lugubrious  succession 

Drop   from  the  trees  the  leaves'   first   yellowed 

leaders, 

Autumn  is  in  the  air  and  in  the  past, 
Desolate,  utterly. 

Sunlight  and  clouds  in  hesitant  procession, 
Laughter  and  tears,  and  winter  at  the  last. 
There  is  a  battle-music  in  the  cedars, 
High  on  the  hills  of  life  the  grasses  shiver. 
Hail,  dead  reality  and  living  vision, 
Thrice  hail  in  memory. 
And  the  long  wind  in  the  cedars  will  sing  of  this 

for  ever. 

Tours,  1918 


Ill 


OF 


days  and  nights  under  the  living  vine, 
Memory  singing  from  a  tree  has  given 
The  plan  of  my  buried  heaven, 
That  I  may  dig  therein  as  in  a  mine. 

Did  I  call  you,   little  Vigilant  One,   under  the 

waning  sun? 

Did  you  come  barefooted  through  the  dew, 
Through  the  fine   dew-drenched  grass  when  the 

colours  faded 
Out  of  the  sky? 
Who  is  that  shadow  holding  over  you  a  veil  of 

tempest  woven, 
Shaded  with  streaks  of  cloud  and  lightning  on 

the  edges? 

Lean  nearer,  I  fear  him,  and  the  sigh 
Of  the  rising  wind  worries  the  sedges, 
And  the  cry 

Of  a  white,  long-legged  bird  from  the  marsh 
Cuts  through  the  twilight  with  a  threat  of  night. 
The  receding  voice  is  harsh 
And  echoes  in  my  spirit. 
Hark,  do  you  hear  it  wailing  against  the  hollow 

rocks  of  the  hill, 

As  it  takes  its  lonely  outgoing  towards  the  sea? 
Lean  nearer  still. 
Your  silence  is  an  ecstasy  of  speech, 

C743 


You  are  the  only  white 
Unconquered  by  the  overwhelming  frown. 
Who  stands  behind  you  so  impassively? 
Bid  him  begone,  or  let  me  reach 
And  tear  away  his  veil.     But  he  is  gone. 
Who  was  he?   surely  no  comrade  of  the  dawn, 
No  lover  from  an  earthly  town, 
Was  he  then  Love?    or  Death?    .    .    .    but  he  is 
gone. 

Come,  I  will  take  your  hand,  —  this  little  glade 

Of  stunted  trees,  —  do  you  remember  that  ? 

You  dropped  the  Persian  vase  here  on  this  stone, 

And  the  white  grape  was  spilled; 

And  then  you  cried,  half  angry,  half  afraid; 

Yonder  we  sat 

And  carefully  took  the  pieces  one  by  one, 

And  tried  to  make  them  fit. 

I  brought  another  vessel  filled 

With  a  deeper  wine,  and  there  on  that  dark  bank, 

When  the  first  star  stepped  from  immensity, 

We  lay  and  drank.  .  .  . 

Do  you  remember  it? 

White  flame  you  burned  against  the  star  grey 

grass. 

Drink  deep  and  pass 
The  insufficient  cup  to  me. 

Paris, 


IV 


OU  seek  to  hurt  me,  foolish  child,  and  why? 
How  cunningly  you  try 

The  keen  edge  of  your  words  against  me,  yea, 
The  death  you  would  not  dare  inflict  on  me, 
Yet  would  you  welcome  if  it  tore  the  day 
In  which  I  pleasure  from  my  sight. 
You  would  be  happy  if  that  sombre  night 
Ravished  me  into  darkness  where  there  are 
No  flowers  and  no  colours  and  no  light, 
Nor  any  joy,  nor  you,  O  morning  star. 

What  have  I  done  to  hurt  you?     You  have  given 
What  I  have  given,  and  both  of  us  have  taken 
Bravely  and  beautifully  without  regret. 
When  have  I  sinned  against  you?    or  forsaken 
Our  secret  vow?     Think  you  that  I  forget 
One  syllable  of  all  your  loveliness? 
What  is  this  crime  that  shall  not  be  forgiven? 

Spring  passes,  the  pale  buds  upon  the  pond 

Shrink  under  water  from  my  lonely  oars, 

The  fern  is  squandering  its  final  frond, 

And  gypsy  smoke  drifts  grey  from  distant  shores. 

O  soon  enough  the  end  of  love  and  song, 
And  soon  enough  the  ultimate  farewell; 
Blazon  our  lives  with  one  last  miracle,  — 
We  have  not  long.     '.:?  f.' 
Genoa,  1918 

1 76  3 


BY 


these  shall  you  remember 
The  syllables  of  me; 
The  grass  in  cushioned  clumps  around 
The  root  of  cedar  tree. 

The  blue  and  green  design 
Of  sky  and  budding  leaves, 
The  joyous  song  that  in  the  sun 
A  golden  ladder  weaves. 

When  soil  is  wet  and  warm 
And  smells  of  the  new  rain, 
When  frogs  accost  the  evening 
With  their  recurrent  strain, 

Then  damn  me  if  you  dare. 

I  know  how  you  will  call, 

But  this  time  I  will  laugh  and  run, 

Nor  look  at  you  at  all. 

Or,  if  you  will,  go  walking 
With  immortality, 
But  never  shall  you  once  forget 
The  syllables  of  me. 

Paris,  1919 


C773 


VI 


WO  black  deer  uprise 
In  ghostly  silhouette 
Against  the  frozen  skies, 
Against  the  snowy  meadow; 
The  moonlight  weaves  a  net 
Of  silver  and  of  shadow. 
The  sky  is  cold  above  me, 
The  icy  road  below 
Leads  me  from  you  who  love  me, 
To  unknown  destinies. 
Was  that  your  whistle  ?  —  No, 
The  wind  among  the  trees. 

Sheffield,  1917 


C783 


VII 


HEN  in  the  ultimate  embrace 
Our  blown  dust  mingles  in  the  wind, 
And  others  wander  in  the  place 
Where  we  made  merry; 
When  in  the  dance  of  spring  we  spend 
Our  ashen  powers  with  the  gale, 
What  will  these  tears  and  joys  avail, 
The  winged  kiss,  the  laughing  face, 
Where  we  make  merry? 
Save  that  with  everlasting  grace 
Thy  soul  shall  linger  in  this  place, 
And  haunt  with  music,  or  else  be 
A  lyric  in  the  memory. 

Boston,  1915 


C793 


LON] 


VIII 


fIGHT  it  seems  to  be  the  same 
As  when  we  two  would  sit 
With  struggling  breath  beside  the  river. 
How  slowly  the  moon  came 
Above  the  hill;   how  wet 
With  shaking  silver  she  arose 
Above  the  hill. 

Now  in  the  sultry  garden  close 
I  hear  the  katydid 
Strumming  his  foolish  mandolin. 
The  wind  is  lying  still, 
And  suddenly  amid 

The  trembling  boughs  the  moon  expands  into  a 
scarlet  flame. 

What  charm  can  bid  the  mind  forget, 
And  sleep  in  peace  forever, 
Beyond  the  ghosts  of  ancient  sin, 
Lost  laughter,  barren  tears. 

And   you,    my   dear,    have   slept   four   thousand 

years, 
Beneath  the  Pyramid. 

Brussels,  1918 


IX 


IF 


you  should  come  tonight 
And  say,  "I  could  not  go,  and  leave 
You  here  alone  in  pain," 
How  should  I  take  delight 
In  that  or  dare  believe, 
Lest  I  deceive  myself  with  dreams  again? 
If  you  should  come  tonight. 

Cambridge,  1916 


You 


are  very  far  to-night; 
So  far  that  my  beseeching  hands 
Clasp  on  the  bright 
Metallic  lock  of  some  forbidden  portal, 
Where  you  alone  may  enter  in; 
And  my  long  gaze 
Blurs  in  a  memory  of  other  lands, 
And  other  times. 
You  stand  immortal. 
You  have  fought  clear  beyond  these  nights  and 

days 

Whose  rusty  chimes 
Shake  the  frail,  faded  tapestries  of  sin. 
You  stand  immortal, 
Intense  wth  peace,  immaculate  as  stone, 
Raising  white  arms  of  praise, 
Far  from  this  night,  triumphantly  alone. 

Cambridge,  1917 


C82] 


XI 


o 


LONELY  star  moving  in  still  abodes 
Where  fear  and  strife  lie  indolently  furled, 
You  cannot  hear  the  rushing  autumn  hurled 
Against  these  wanderers  bent  with  futile  loads. 
Our  broken  dreams  like  withered  leaves  are  swirled 
Where  wind-dashed  lanterns  fail  upon  the  roads, 
And  all  our  tragic  gestured  episodes 
End  in  forgotten  graveyards  of  the  world. 

But  in  those  twilights  where  you  spread  your  fires, 

Tempest  and  clarion  are  heard  no  more; 

Autumn  no  sorrow,  spring  no  hope  inspires, 

Nor  can  the  distant  closing  of  a  door 

Affright  the  soul  to  dark  imagining 

Beneath  deflowered  boughs  where  no  birds  sing. 

Pomfrrt,  /p/9 


XII 

CHALICE  singing  deep  with  wine, 
Set  high  among  the  starry  groves, 
Welcomes  every  man  to  dine 
With  his  old  familiar  loves. 

1917 


BOOK  IV 
THE  GARDEN  OF  EPICURUS 


I 


.S  dreamers  through  their  dreams  surmise 
The  stealthy  passage  of  the  night, 
We  half-remember  smoky  skies 
And  city  streets  and  hurrying  flight, 
Another  world  from  this  clear  height 
Whereon  our  starry  altars  rise. 

Beneath  our  towering  waste  of  stone 
The  fragile  ships  creep  to  and  fro, 
By  tempest  riven  and  overthrown, 
The  toys  of  these  same  tides  that  flow 
Against  our  pillars  far  below 
With  faint,  insistent  monotone. 

The  snarling  winds  against  our  rocks 

Hurl  breakers  in  a  fleecy  mass, 

Like  wolves  that  chase  stampeding  flocks 

Over  the  brink  of  a  crevasse, 

While  thunders  down  the  Alpine  pass 

The  deluge  of  the  equinox. 

Lost  in  that  stormy  atmosphere, 

Men  chart  their  seas  and  trudge  their  roads; 

Inviolate,  we  scorn  to  hear 

Their  shouted  warning  that  forebodes 

£873 


An  end  to  these  fair  episodes 
Of  life  beneath  our  tranquil  sky; 
Having  sought  only  peace,  then  why 
Should  we  go  down  to  death  with  fear? 

Pom/ret,  1920 


C88D 


II 


Tl 


HE  thinkers 'light  their  lamps  in  rows 
From  street  to  street,  and  then 
The  night  creeps  up  behind,  and  blows 
Them  quickly  out  again. 

While  Age  limps  groping  toward  his  home, 

Hearing  the  feet  of  youth 
From  dark  to  dark  that  sadly  roam 

The  suburbs  of  the  Truth. 

Paris,  1919 


C893 


Ill 

A  pass  my  days  in  ghostly  presences, 

And  when  the  wind  at  night  is  mute, 

Far  down  the  valley  I  can  hear  a  flute 

And  a  strange  voice,  not  knowing  what  it  says. 

And  sometimes  in  the  interim  of  days, 
I  hear  a  fountain  in  obscure  abodes, 
Singing  with  none  but  me  to  hear,  the  lays 
That  would  do  pleasure  to  the  ears  of  gods. 

And  faces  pass,  but  haply  they  are  dreams, 
Dreams  of  a  mind  set  free  that  gilds 
The  solitude  with  awful  light  and  builds 
Temples  and  lovers,  goblins  and  triremes. 

Give  me  a  chair  and  liberate  the  sun, 

And  glancing  motes  to  twinkle  down  its  bars, 

That  I  may  sit  above  oblivion, 

And  weave  myself  a  universe  of  stars. 

Rome,  1918 


IV 


EACH 


mote  that  staggers  down  the  sun 
Repeats  an  ancient  monotone 
That  minds  me  of  the  time  when  I 
Put  out  the  candles  one  by  one, 

And  left  no  splendour  on  the  face 
Of  Him  who  found  His  resting-place 
Upon  the  Cross;    and  then  I  went 
Out  on  the  desert's  empty  space, 

And  heard  the  wind  in  monotone 
Blow  grains  of  sand  against  a  stone, 
Until  I  sang  aloud,  to  break 
The  fear  of  wandering  alone. 

There  is  no  fear  left  in  my  soul, 

But  when,  to-day,  an  aureole 

Of  sunlight  gathered  on  your  hair, 

And  winking  motes  fled  here  and  there, 

Like  notes  of  music  in  the  air, 

Suddenly  I  felt  the  wind 

Wake  on  the  desert  as  I  stole 

Out  of  that  desecrated  shrine, 

And  then  I  wondered  if  you  sinned 

As  part  of  me,  or  if  the  whole 

Dark  sacrilege  were  mine. 

Cambridge,  1917 


H 


E  is  a  priest; 
He  feeds  the  dead; 
He  sings  the  feast; 
He  veils  his  head; 
The  words  are  dread 
In  morning  mist, 
But  the  wine  is  red 
In  the  Eucharist. 

Red  as  the  east 
With  sunlight  spread 
Like  a  bleeding  beast 
On  a  purple  bed. 
O  Someone  fled 
From  an  April  tryst, 
Were  your  lips  fed 
In  the  Eucharist? 

I,  at  least, 

When  the  voice  of  lead 

Sank  down  and  ceased, 

Knew  the  things  he  said. 

That  the  god  who  bled, 

And  the  god  we  kissed. 

Shall  never  wed 

In  the  Eucharist.     *     v.i 


Spring,  give  the  bread 
We  sought  and  missed, 
And  wine  unshed 
In  the  Eucharist. 

Paris,  1919 


VI 

A  HROUGH  hissing  snow,  through  rain,  through 

many  hundred  Mays, 

Contorted  in  Promethean  jest,  the  gargoyles  sit, 
And  watch  the  crowds  pursue  the  charted  ways, 
Whose  source  is  birth,  whose  end  they  only  know. 
Charms  borrowed  from  the  loveliest  of  hells, 
And  from  the  earth,  a  rhapsody  of  wit, 
They  hear  the  sacramental  bells 
Chime  through  the  towers,  and  they  smile. 
Smile  on  the  insects  in  the  square  below, 
Smile  on  the  stars  that  kiss  the  infinite, 
And,  when  the  clouds  hang  low,  they  gaily  spout 
Grey  water  on  the  heads  of  the  devout 
That  gather,  whispering,  in  the  sabbath  street. 
O  gargoyles!   was  the  vinegar  and  bile 
So  bitter?    Was  the  eucharist  so  sweet? 

Paris,  1919 


C94l! 


VII 


GODS 


dine  on  prayer  and  sacred  song, 
And  go  to  sleep  between; 
The  gods  have  slumbered  long; 
The  gods  are  getting  lean. 

Sheffield,  1917 


n-953 


VIII 

SMILE  will  turn  away  green  eyes 
That  laughter  could  not  touch, 
The  dangers  of  those  subtleties, 
The  stealthy,  clever  hand, 
Should  not  affright  you  overmuch 
If  you  but  understand 
How  Judas,  clad  in  Oxford  grey,  — 
Could  walk  abroad  on  Easter  Day. 

Paris,  1919 


C96] 


IX 


T 


WO  Kings  there  were,  one  Good,  one  Bad; 
The  first  was  mournfulness  itself, 
The  second,  happy  as  a  lad,  — 
And  both  are  dust  upon  a  shelf. 

Shtffltld,  1917 


C97H 


X 


I 


SEE  that  Hermes  unawares, 
Has  left  his  footprints  on  the  path; 
See  here,  he  fell,  and  in  his  wrath 
He  pulled  out  several  golden  hairs 
Against  the  brambles.     Guard  them  well, 
The  hairs  of  gods  are  valuable. 

Paris, 


XI 

Q 

OEMIRAMIS,  the  whore  of  Babylon, 
Bade  me  go  walking  with  her.     I  obeyed. 
Philosophy,  I  thought,  is  not  afraid 
Of  any  woman  underneath  the  sun. 
Far  up  the  hills  she  led  me,  where  one  ledge 
Thrust  out  a  slender  finger  to  the  sky, 
Dizzy  and  swaying  as  an  eagle's  cry; 
Semiramis  stepped  to  the  farthest  edge. 

And  there  she  danced,  whirling  upon  her  toes, 
The  triumph  of  a  flame  was  in  her  face, 
Faster  and  faster  as  the  mad  wind  blows, 
She  whirled,  and  slipped,  and  dashed  down  into 

space.  .  .  . 

Next  day  I  saw  her  smiling  in  the  sun, 
Semiramis,  the  Queen  of  Babylon. 

Paris,  1919 


XII 


B 


iRING  hemlock,  black  as  Cretan  cheese, 
And  mix  a  sacramental  brew; 
A  worthy  drink  for  Socrates, 
Why  not  for  you? 

Sheffield,  1917 


£100:1 


XIII 

ALKING  through  the  town  last  night, 
I  learned  the  lore  of  second  sight, 
And  saw  through  all  those  solid  walls, 
Imbecile  and  troglodyte. 

The  vicious  apes  of  either  sex 
Grinned  and  mouthed  and  stretched  their  necks, 
Their  little  lusts  skipped  back  and  forth, 
Not  very  pretty  or  complex. 

Each  has  five  senses;  every  sense 
Is  like  a  false  gate  in  a  fence, 
They  think  the  gates  are  bona  fide, 
Such  is  their  only  innocence. 

And  think  themselves  extremely  wise 
When  any  sense  records  its  lies, 
They  mumble  what  they  feel  or  hear, 
Unmindful  still  of  Paradise. 

When  I  walked  through  the  town  last  night 
In  vain  they  drew  their  curtains  tight, 
Through  walls  of  brick  I  plainly  saw 
The  imbecile,  the  troglodyte. 

Paris, 


XIV 


TH, 


[E  change  of  many  tides  has  swung  the  flow 
Of  those  green  weeds  that  cling  like  filthy  fur 
Upon  the  timbers  of  this  voyager 
That  sank  in  the  clear  water  long  ago. 
Whence  did  she  sail?  the  sands  of  ages  blur 
The  answer  to  the  secret,  and  as  though 
They  mocked  and  knew,  sleek  fishes,  to  and  fro, 
Trail  their  grey  carrion  shadows  over  her. 
Coffer  of  all  life  gives  and  hides  away, 
It  matters  not  if  London  or  if  Tyre 
Sped  you  to  sea  on  some  remoter  day; 
Beneath  your  decks  immutable  desire 
And  hope  and  hate  and  envy  still  conspire, 
While  all  the  gaping  faces  nod  and  sway. 

Brussels, 


XV 

JriERO  di  Cosimo, 

Your  unicorns  and  afterglow, 

Your  black  leaves  cut  against  the  sky, 

Black  crosses  where  the  young  gods  die, 

Black  horizons  where  the  sea 

And  clouds  contend  perpetually, 

And  hanging  low, 

The  menace  of  the  night:  — 

They  called  you  madman.     Were  they  right, 
Piero  di  Cosimo? 

Pomfret,  IQIQ 


1:103] 


XVI 


I 


WOULD  know  what  can  not  be  known; 
I  would  reach  beyond  my  sphere, 
And  question  the  stars  in  their  courses, 
And  the  dead  of  many  a  year. 
I  would  tame  the  infinite  forces 
That  bend  me  down  like  the  grain, 
Peace  would  I  give  to  the  fields  where  the  young 

men  died, 

Peace  to  the  sea  where  the  ships  of  battle  ride, 
And  light  again  to  the  eyes  of  the  beautiful  slain. 

This  would  I  do,  but  today  against  the  sky, 
They  who  were  building  a  cross  grinned   as   I 
passed  them  by. 

Pomfret,  1919 


CI043 


XVII 

A  HE  yellow  bird  is  singing  by  the  pond, 
And  all  about  him  stars  have  burst  in  bloom, 
A  colonnade  stands  pallidly  beyond, 
And  beneath  that  a  solitary  tomb. 
Who  lies  within  that  tomb  I  do  not  know, 
The  yellow  bird  intones  his  threnody 
In  notes  as  colourless  as  driven  snow, 
Clashing  with  the  green  hush  and  out  of  key. 

O  cease,  your  endless  song  is  out  of  tune, 
Where     all     these     old     forgotten     things      are 

sleeping,  — 

Give  back  to  silence's  eternal  keeping 
The  windless  pond,  the  hanging  colonnade, 
Lest  in  the  wane  of  the  long  afternoon, 
The  Dead  awake,  unhappy  and  afraid. 

Bordeaux, 


BOOK  V 

SONNETS 


I 


^OVE 


dwelled  with  me  with  music  on  her  lips; 
Beauty  has  quickened  me  to  passion;  prayer 
Has  cried  from  me  before  I  was  aware 
When  grief  was  scourging  me  with  scarlet  whips. 
The  gods  gave  me  to  follies  false  and  fair; 
Made  me  the  object  of  immortal  quips, 
But  I  am  recompensed  with  comradeships 
That  gods  themselves  would  be  content  to  share. 

The  time  of  play  has  been,  of  wisdom,  is; 
Yet  who  can  say  which  is  the  truly  wise? 
Enough  that  I  have  stayed  Love  with  a  kiss, 
That  Beauty  has  found  welcome  in  my  eyes; 
Though  the  long  poplar  path  leads  dark  before, 
Up  to  the  white  inevitable  door. 


CI093 


II 


I 


NVOKING  not  the  worship  of  the  crowd 
As  Hadrian  divulged  Antinous 
Would  I  denote  Thy  sanctity,  not  thus 
Should  Love's  deep  litany  be  cried  aloud. 
There  is  a  mountain  set  apart  for  us 
Where  I  have  hid  Thy  soul  as  in  a  cloud, 
And  there  I  dedicate  as  I  have  vowed 
My  secret  voice,  —  all  else  were  impious. 

Remote  and  undiscovered,  rest  secure 
Where  I  have  set  Thee  up,  that  I  may  keep 
My  faith  of  God-in-Thee  unblent  and  pure; 
That  I  may  be  at  one  with  Thee  in  sleep; 
That  waking  as  a  mortal,  I  may  leap 
Into  immortal  dreams  where  love  is  sure. 


Ill 


AN] 


\D  yet  think  not  that  I  desire  to  seal 
Your  earthly  beauty  from  the  eyes  of  praise, 
The  Soul  I  worship  hath  its  holy-days, 
But  being  God  is  manifestly  real. 
The  flesh  resplendent  in  a  lover's  gaze 
Hath  too  its  triumph;    the  divine  ideal 
Is  dual  and  can  wonderfully  reveal 
Itself  in  dust  enriched  by  subtle  ways. 

You  are  no  shadow,  for  in  you  combine 

Earth-music  and  a  spirit's  sanctity, 

And  both  are  exquisite,  and  both  are  mine.  . 

For  holier  men  a  Beatrice,  for  me 

The  joyous  sense  of  your  reality, 

Not  half  so  saintly,  —  but  far  more  divine. 


IV 


w, 


ITH  the  young  god  who  out  of  death  creates 
The  flame  of  life  made  manifest  in  spring, 
Let  us  go  forth  at  day's  awakening, 
The  first  to  open  wide  the  garden  gates. 
And  resting  where  the  blowing  seasons  sing, 
Await  the  voice  of  god  who  consecrates 
The  pallid  hands  of  the  autumnal  fates 
That  beckon  from  the  dusk,  dream-harvesting. 

When  comes  the  grey  god,  eager  to  destroy 
Our  garnered  hoard  of  wisdom  and  of  joy, 
Fear  not  that  phantom,  desolate  and  stark, 
For  the  young  god,  the  all-creating  boy, 
Will  come  and  find  us  sleeping  in  the  dark, 
And   from  two  deaths,   bring  forth  life's  single 
spark. 


o 


IT  was  gay!  the  wilderness  was  floral, 
The  sea  a  bath  of  wine  to  the  laughing  swimmer; 
Dawn  was  a  flaming  fan;    dusk  was  a  glimmer 
Like  undersea  where  sly  dreams  haunt  the  coral. 
The  garden  sang  of  fame  when  the  golden  shim 
mer 

Of  sun  glowed  on  the  proud  leaves  of  the  laurel,  — 
But    time    and    love    fought    out    their    ancient 

quarrel; 
The  songs  are  fainter  now;  the  lights  are  dimmer. 

For  it  is  over,  over,  and  the  spring 

Is  not  quite  spring  to  you  who  sit  alone; 

A  paradise  entire  has  taken  wing; 

Love  and  her  merry  company  are  gone 

The  way  of  all  delight  and  lyric  measures, 

And  the  lone  miser  mourns  his  vanished  treasures. 


VI 


T, 


HE  snow  is  thawing  on  the  hanging  eaves, 
The  buds  unroll  upon  the  basking  limb, 
And  hidden  birds  are  practising  a  hymn 
To  sing  when  petals  fall  among  the  leaves. 
And  yet  in  life  there  is  an  interim 
So  dull  that  stagnant  loneliness  bereaves 
Beauty  of  tenderness,  and  hope  deceives 
Until  the  eyes  grow  sceptical  and  dim. 

I  know  I  have  no  right  to  solitude 

When  every  friendly  grove  is  loud  with  calls 

From  bird  to  mating  bird,  and  all  the  wood 

Is  throbbing  with  the  voice  of  waterfalls, 

But  merry  song  and  liquid  interlude 

Ring  in  my  heart  like  mirth  in  empty  halls. 


VII 


So 


ends  the  day  with  beauty  in  the  west, 
Bending  in  holy  peace  above  the  land; 
It  is  not  needful  that  we  understand; 
Oblivion  is  ours,  and  that  is  best. 
Oblivion  of  battles  that  command 
Our  wan  reluctance,  and  a  starless  rest 
Borne  on  in  tideless  twilight,  where  all  quest 
Ends  in  the  pressure  of  a  quiet  hand. 

There  is  no  morrow  to  this  final  dream 
That  paints  the  past  so  wonderfully  fair; 
No  rising  sun  shall  desecrate  that  gleam 
Of  fragile  colour  hanging  on  the  air. 
Enshrined  in  sunset  are  all  things  that  seem 
Happy  and  beautiful;    and  Thou  art  there. 


VIII 

ACROSS  the  evening  calm  I  faintly  hear 
The  melody  you  loved;   a  violin 
Sings  through  the  listening  air,  far-off  and  thin, 
The  infinite  music  of  our  happy  year. 
The  soul's  dim  gates  are  broken  to  let  in 
That  gush  of  memories,  and  you  are  near, 
Poised  on  the  shadowy  threshold  whence  appear 
The  prospects  of  the  dreams  we  strove  to  win. 

Rise  wistfully,  and  fall  away,  and  pass, 
Frail  music  of  impossible  delight, 
Steal  into  silence  over  the  dark  grass, 
Dreams  of  the  inner  caverns  of  the  night. 
Strange  that  in  those  few  hesitating  bars 
Are  life  and  death,  the  orbits  of  the  stars. 


IX 

V^ALMER  than  mirrored  waters  after  rain, 
Calmer  than  all  the  swaying  tides  of  sleep, 
Profounder  than  the  stony  eyes  that  keep 
Afternoon  vigil  on  the  ruined  plain; 
So  drift  they  by,  the  cloudy  forms  that  creep 
In  stealthy  whiteness  through  the  windless  grain; 
The  twilight  ebbs,  and  washed  in  the  long  rain, 
I  am  their  shepherd,  pasturing  my  sheep. 

They  can  not  change;  they  can  but  wander  here; 
That  is  their  destiny  and  also  mine; 
The  fuel  that  I  was,  the  flames  they  were, 
Are  vanished  down  the  lost  horizon  line. 
Likewise  the  stars  have  died;   the  silence  hears 
Only  the  footfall  of  the  pastured  years. 


X 


I 


STOOD  like  some  worn  image  carved  of  stone 
Amid  the  thoughtful  sands  of  eventide; 
When  rolling  back  the  grey,  there  opened  wide 
The  unsuspected  gates  of  the  Unknown. 
Long  hours  I  stood,  amazed  and  deified, 
Beside  that  singing  shore;    that  shining  zone, 
Myself  like  God,  triumphantly  alone, 
"And  is  this  then  the  shore  of  death?"  I  cried. 

A  wind  blew  down  from  the  tremendous  sky, 
Fraught  with  a  whisper  fainter  than  a  breath, 
Fanning  my  spirit  with  exalted  wonder; 
But   the   great   doors   swung  to   with   rumbling 

thunder; 

One  more  the  winged  faith  had  passed  me  by, 
Like  unto  melody,  like  unto  death. 


XI 


Ti 


HROUGH  the  deep  night  the  leaves  speak, 

tree  to  tree. 
Where   are   the   stars?     the    frantic   clouds    ride 

high, 

The  swelling  gusts  of  wind  blow  down  the  sky, 
Shaking  the  thoughts  from  the  leaves,  garrulously. 
Through  the  deep  night,  articulate  to  me, 
They  question  your  untimely  passing-by; 
Your  spring  is  still  in  flower,  must  you  fly 
Windswept  so  soon  down  lanes  of  memory? 

Through  the   deep   night   the  trees   recount   the 

past, 

The  lovers  that  have  long  ago  gone  hence, 
And  whom  you  joined  ere  love  had  reached  her 

prime. 

Chill  with  an  early  autumn's  immanence, 
Through    the    dark    night    plunges    the    sudden 

blast, 
Sweeping   the   young   leaves    down    before   their 

time. 


XII 


I 


WALKED  the  hollow  pavements  of  the  town, 
Lost  in  the  vast  entirety  of  night, 
The  moon  was  cankered  with  a  greyish  blight, 
And  half  her  face  was  gathered  in  a  frown. 
A  hooded  watchman  passed  me,  and  his  gown 
Was  dyed  so  black  it  made  the  darkness  white, 
He  turned  upon  my  face  his  curious  light, 
And  whispered  as  he  wandered  up  and  down. 

Then  there  were  curling  lanes  and  then  a  hill, 
And  sentry  stars  that  guard  the  Absolute, 
And  spectral  feet  that  followed  me,  until 
The  vapours  rose,  and  somewhere  in  the  mute 
And  hesitating  dawn,  a  single  flute 
Piped  once  again  the  grey,  and  then  was  still. 


XIII 


IN 


tireless  march  I  move  from  sphere  to  sphere. 
I  turn  not  back  nor  pause;    my  feet  are  drawn 
By  shining  power.     Master  soul  or  pawn, 
I  know  not  which  I  am;   I  only  hear 
The  faint  insistent  world  voice  murmuring  on 
Its  pivot  in  another  atmosphere; 
All  else  is  silence,  the  pervading  year 
Blows  wanly  through  my  senses  and  is  gone. 

O  You  who  met  me  on  the  sunny  lawn 

Of  yesteryear,  to  be  my  true  companion, 

And  bade  me  lead  you  with  me  from  the  dawn 

Into  the  shades  of  my  predestined  canon, 

How  is  it  that  I  find  myself  alone 

Here  in  this  desolate  and  starry  zone? 


XIV 

WHILE  you  shared  my  path  and  solitude, 
A  while  you  ate  the  bread  of  loneliness, 
And  satisfied  yourself  with  a  caress 
Or  with  a  careless  overflow  of  mood. 
And  then  you  left  me  suddenly,  to  press 
Into  the  world  again,  and  seek  your  food 
Among  the  mortals  whom  you  understood, 
Instead  of  learning  in  the  wilderness. 

Now  you  return  to  where  you  fled  from  me, 
And  find  me  gone.     You  call  me  from  afar, 
And  call  in  vain;    I  can  not  turn  to  see 
You  loveliness,  beloved  as  you  are. 
Inexorably  I  move  from  sphere  to  sphere, 
Nor  wait  for  any  soul,  however  dear. 


1:1223 


XV 


{  HE 


IRE  is  a  void  that  reason  can  not  face, 
Nor  wisdom  comprehend,  nor  sweating  will 
Diminish,  nor  the  rain  of  April  fill, 
And  I  am  weary  of  this  wan  grimace. 
Behold  I  touch  the  garments  of  all  ill 
And  do  not  wash  my  hands;    a  dusty  place 
Unprobed  by  light  becomes  a  loud  mill  race 
That  swirls  together  straw  and  daffodil. 

It  is  untrue  that  vigil  can  not  trace 

The  orbits  which  upon  our  births  distil 

The  filtered  dew  of  fate;    I  saw  the  hill 

That  I  must  climb,  and  gauged  the  upward  pace; 

And  now  upon  the  night's  worn  window  sill, 

I  wait  and  smile.     Hail,  Judas,  full  of  grace. 


TH 


XVI 


[E  mirrors  of  all  ages  are  the  eyes 
Of  some  remembering  god,  wherein  are  sealed 
The  beauties  of  the  world,  the  April  field, 
Young  faces,  blowing  hair,  and  autumn  skies. 
The  mirrors  of  the  world  shall  break,  and  yield 
To  life  again  what  never  really  dies; 
The  forms  and  colours  of  earth's  pageantries, 
Unwithered  and  undimmed,  shall  be  revealed. 

And  in  that  moment  silence  shall  unfold 
Forgotten  songs  that  she  has  held  interred, 
The  ocean  rising  on  the  shores  of  gold, 
Flecked    with    white    laughter    and    love's    lyric 

word; 

All  happy  music  that  the  world  has  heard; 
All  beauty  that  eternal  eyes  behold. 


CI243 


XVII 

sat  in  silence  till  the  twilight  fell, 
And  then  beyond  the  vague  and  purple  arc 
Where  sky  and  ocean  merge,  a  summons.   "Hark! 
Clear  notes  like  water  falling  in  a  well, 
Can  you  not  hear?"     "No,  but  a  sudden  dark 
Seems  to  enfold  me,  lonely  and  terrible." 
Out  of  the  sunset,  a  black  caravel 
Drew  near,  and  then  I  knew  I  should  embark. 

I  saw  it  tack  against  the  fading  skies, 

I  heard  its  keel  slide  crunching  up  the  sand, 

Then  turned,  and  read,  deep  in  the  other's  eyes, 

The  pain  of  one  who  can  no^  understand. 

Dusk  deepened  over  the  insurging  seas, 

And  loose  sails  crackled  in  the  rising  breeze. 


XVIII 


HE 


clung  to  me,  his  young  face  dark  with  woe, 
And  as  the  mournful  music  of  the  tide 
Monotonously  sang,  he  stood  and  cried, 
A  silhouette  against  the  afterglow. 
I  said,  "The  boat  has  spread  her  pinions  wide; 
The  stars  and  wind  come  forth  together.     Go 
Back  to  our  ivy-haunted  portico, 
And  place  my  seat  as  always  at  your  side." 

And  so  I  stepped  aboard  and  left  him  there. 
Farewell;    the  rhythmic  somnolence  of  oars; 
Star-misty  vastness;    swiftly  moving  air; 
Then  distant  lighrs  on  undiscovered  shores. 
This  I  reiriember,  standing  by  the  sea, 
But  where;  v  ->s  that  dark  land,  and  who  were  we? 

'rf 


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LIBRARY,  UNIVERSITY  OF  CALIFORNIA,  DAVIS 

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